The Innkeeper's Son
by HeartOfParadise
Summary: In the years leading up to 1832, a young law student became friends with a blond street urchin with a cheeky grin. Somewhere along the way, Courfeyrac became Courf and Gavroche became Gav, and the grudging friendship gave way to a brotherly bond.
1. Stubborn

_Where is love?_  
_Does it fall from skies above?_  
_Is it underneath the willow tree_  
_That I've been dream of?_

_[Where Is Love - Oliver!]_

He hurried down the cobbled lane, one hand on his flyaway hat and the other clutching onto his briefcase. The mid-winter wind swirled around him, its icy finger numbing his body despite the many layers of clothes he had on. He cursed under his breath as the nearby cathedral bells chimed, marking the hour. The university was still ten minutes away, and he was woefully late.

Voices called out to him as he strode through the busy square, ladies who have known his mother for decades and gentlemen who came by regularly for a drink with his father. He took his hat off to them, and kissed the gloved fingertips of the women. And then there are the girls, rosy-faced and smiling even in the midst of a drab winter. He couldn't help himself in catching the kisses they blew his way, and winking in return to their blatant batting of their eyelashes. With their twinkling eyes and promising smiles surrounding him, Courfeyrac knew that he wouldn't make it to the university that day, and he was secretly glad to miss the lectures on nothing but rich man's law.

He walked to the shops with a pretty blonde, heading in the opposite direction to his university. She was the daughter of a professor of medicine and had the bluest eyes, but he couldn't recall her name for the life of him. The hour flew by, and as he helped her into her carriage he felt the slightest brush against his coat.

"Wrong pocket, my lad," he said with a hint of a smile as he looked at the culprit.

The boy gazed up at him, frozen for a moment by shock, his mop of dirty blond hair level with Courfeyrac's waist. Whether the shock was due to being caught, or due to the strange response by this upper-class young man, Courfeyrac didn't have the time to figure it out before an ear splitting scream rang across the street.

"THIEF!" his pretty blonde companion shriek, her gloved hand pointing at the child beside her carriage, "SOMEBODY CATCH THE LITTLE THIEF!"

The boy disappeared into a narrow lane before she could yell anything else, his bare feet barely touching the ground as he darted between the milling crowd. Courfeyrac reached up a hand to calm the blue-eyed lady, telling her the child did no harm and could've done with a sou or two in this cold weather.

"You cannot mean it, Monsieur," she replied, her once-pretty mouth pursed into an ugly shape, "That _thing_ is naught but trouble and undeserving of your attention."

He had nothing to say to that, save a very quick goodbye. His friends at le Musain used to say that he was infamous for courting ladies and leaving them for no reason other than boredom, but this time he had a very good reason indeed.

He wondered briefly about the blond urchin as he walked towards the cafe, deciding to do his study in the company of a cup of wine instead of his fellow haughty law students. Perhaps he had costed the child the day's catch in speaking up, perhaps because of him the little boy will go to sleep with an empty stomach that night. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself as the wind blew harder, the image of the blond boy in nothing but rags haunting him.

Little did he know that their paths would cross again.

* * *

Many became sick that winter, a kind of infection that made the rich bedridden for weeks and killed the poor. Joly and Combeferre turned up less frequently for meetings, busy with their roles of trainee physicians. Courfeyrac himself caught the sickness, but was lucky enough to be out and about again with a few days' rest.

With his scarf tightly wound and an extra thick jacket, he made his way to the university after a week's absence. The streets were emptier now, and only a few lone figures walked the square. Now and then some street children would run past him, their faces pale and their limbs blue with cold. It was harder to steal and get away now, with no crowd to hide in.

The chill was even stronger when Courfeyrac made his way home that evening, the early nightfall making the whole city feel that little bit colder. He took the shortcut behind the shops to get to le Musain, eager to sit down near a fire and warm himself with some wine.

"Is 'e alright?" whispered a tiny voice somewhere ahead.

The young law student slowed in his path, peering into the darkness and trying to pinpoint the source of the voice in vain. Whoever it was, they were hidden perfectly amidst the jagged outlines of the many crates and barrels lining the lane.

"'ow should I know?" snapped another voice, louder, "Do I look like a doctor to you?"

"But..." ventured the first voice, concern lacing each word, "He won't die, will he?"

"I told you I don't know!" said the other, exasperated yet desperate and helpless at the same time, "All I know is that he's burning! I don't know nothing else, nothing to make him better!"

Courfeyrac inched his way forward, strangely fascinated by these hidden strangers. He almost missed them, three fey figures wedged between piles of wooden crates, two kneeling beside the third's collapsed form. They were street children, with the trademark rags and stringy hair, dirty and uncut so that in the hazy light of a dying day Courfeyrac couldn't tell is they were boys or girls.

The figure on the ground muttered something, his or her voice so soft that Courfeyrac couldn't make out the words. But the other two snapped their heads up upon hearing it, their eyes suddenly wary.

"Gav, won't you please?" the smallest child spoke, fearful.

The fallen child whispered something again, motioning weakly with his arms.

"No, we ain't gonna leave you here," one of the standing urchins said, determined, "Who's there? Speak up! We ain't afraid to fight ya!"

"Don't be so stupid, Pierre!" the boy on the ground muttered hoarsely, then curled up as a racking cough came on. He stuffed his mouth with his fist to soften the sound, but Courfeyrac could hear each painful rasp clearly.

"I'm not here to hurt any of you," he said slowly, extending his hands to show them that he brought no harm, "I was just passing by, that is all."

Up close, the children looked even smaller than they sounded. The taller child, the boy who spoke so fiercely, raised his fists. The younger one, a little girl, scuffled behind him, earning a sound rebuff from her elder. She inched out a little, her bare feet poised on tiptoes to run away at any moment.

"Oh, really?" the boy spoke again, the confident and challenging mask slipping a little, "You, a posh gentleman, walkin' down an alley meant for scum like us? Ow, Gav!"

It seemed as though the boy on the ground had used his remaining strength to kick his companion, a silent signal to back off and run. Courfeyrac bent down, knowing very well that the child was ill despite being a student of law and not medicine. That stench of sickness, sharp in the crisp winter air, was too familiar to him.

"What ya gonna do with him? Back off!" the standing boy inserted himself in between the young man and his friend, shaking a little despite his bravado.

"Your friend here is very sick," Courfeyrac said plainly, "The same kind of sickness that is killing people in this city is help's not given. All I want to do is to get him to that help, if that's alright with you."

"Don't need your help," the sick child whispered stubbornly, using a hand to move his protector aside, "Just go away."

"Are you sure, Gav?" his little friend said uncertainly, "He said he could make ya better."

"I said..." Gav replied, his words interrupted by a bout of coughs," ...I don' want no charity."

Their argument was cut short by the booming voice of another man, his face red and angry from the back door of the bakery.

"Get yer little hands of my crates, you vermin!" he yelled, striding out to swat at the two standing children, "Nothin' for yer dirty little hands here, don't you dare scam off honest working folks like us."

Too amazed to interject, Courfeyrac watched as the urchins ran from the man's reach, their instinct taking over. At the end of the lane, the boy Pierre looked back in helplessness as he realised they left their friend behind. More harsh words from the baker made sure that the two street children made themselves scarce.

"Oh, Monsieur," the man said in a silky voice as he realised Courfeyrac's presence, "I hope they haven't troubled you too much. If you don't mind me saying, Monsieur, a gentleman such as you shouldn't walk these alleyways. To many of those vermins, in my opinion. You gotta keep your eyes peeled around that lot, their fingers..."

The man paused as hacking coughs echoed off the cobbled lane, his eyes widening. Courfeyrac moved over to cover up the sick child at his feet. He brought his hand over his mouth and made a show of coughing. The other man's suspicious gaze stopped at his bent over figure, ceasing to scan up and down the alleyway.

"I could've sworn it was another of those vermins," he muttered under his breath, "Them lot would get sick and come hide here, dying left and right and infecting the good folks. You should go home for a good rest, Monsieur. Get the missus to brew up something for that cough."

"Yes, I'll get on my way," Courfeyrac said when the coughing came to a stop, trying his hardest to sound polite to this cruel and unfeeling man, "Thank you for your words, kind sir."

"Ah, if you'll excuse me, that'll be my own missus yelling," the man said apologetically, ducking back into the bakery and pulling the door shut.

Courfeyrac got down on his knees again, not caring that his crisply starched trousers were drenched in muck. The boy was a ball of misery on the ground, his hands and feet frozen to the touch, yet his forehead burned like a furnace. A weak punch met Courfeyrac's arm as he tried to move the child, but after that there was nothing.

"I'm just going to get you some help, that's all," he explained as he shifted the boy, "Just to get you well enough again, and then you can do as you please, my lad."

At those last two words, the little boy's eyes fluttered open. They were blue, glazed over with fever, but there was a spark of recognition. It glinted with pain as Courfeyrac tried to lift his left arm.

"Wrong arm, my lad," the boy whispered before passing out, his head a dead weight against Courfeyrac.


	2. Feverish

**AN: I'm not quite sure if there is way too much description in this. I'm quite the pedantic writer who loves to look into every little detail and try to make everything as realistic as possible, but sometimes that put off the readers a lot. So, if you have a moment to spare, I would love to get any kind of constructive criticism from you :) If you could also comment on the pace of this and the dialogue (too unnatural?) it would be greatly appreciated!**

For a moment of pure panic, the law student thought that the boy had died. He scrambled to feel for a pulse, cursing himself for the very first time in choosing to study law over medicine. With shaking fingers he pressed down on the boy's wrist, receiving no palpable signs. The child's skin was icy cold, with a pulse so weak that Courfeyrac wasn't entirely sure whether that was just due to his own wishful thinking.

He moved his fingers to the boy's neck, recoiling slightly with shock as he met burning hot skin. Pressing down gently just under the child's jaw, he let out his breath. The boy was still alive.

Courfeyrac gathered the boy awkwardly in his arms, trying his hardest to not move the child's suspected broken left arm. He stood up slowly, sparing a glance down at his briefcase on the ground. He didn't have enough arms to carry the boy and his briefcase, and so he nudged it behind a crate with his foot, hoping to come back later for his university notes.

The walk to le Musain felt like an eternity. Courfeyrac could feel the strength sapping from his newly-adopted charge with each step he took. In his mind, he prayed fervently that either Joly or Combeferre would be at the cafe. Their presence would save a lot of explanations on his behalf, as he knew that turning up to a regular physician with an urchin in his arms would warrant a lot of explaining. Les Amis would understand, or at least they would question him later, when the child was saved.

The matron of le Musain gave him a raised eyebrow as he walked through the door, but then turned her back to him and went about her usual business. She wasn't easily surprised anymore, not after the many strange things that the young university students brought back with them. Courfeyrac made his way to the stairs, muttering apologies as he left behind a trail of muck.

"Late again, Courfeyrac?" Enjolras's voice rang from the space above, with the faintest hint of amusement, "Who was it today? You are not still courting the law professor's niece, are you?"

"Not if we know Courf," Combeferre's voice answered, "That would make it over two weeks, and he doesn't stay around with anyone for more than a few days."

At the sound of the medical student's voice, Courfeyrac breathed a little easier. Usually he would shout back some protests to their joking jibes, but today he had no energy for humour. Dragging himself up the last few steps, he came face to face with his friends. Grantaire, the closest, had a glass of wine all prepared for him, but his outstretched arm dropped as he took in the bundle in Courfeyrac's arms.

"Who's that you've got there, Courf?" Grantaire asked, depositing the glass of wine on the table and standing up.

"'ferre, here's your chance," Courfeyrac replied simply, putting the sick child down on the nearest armchair, "Is Joly here? He's got it pretty bad, I think, and the two of you would probably be better than one."

"Who is he, Courf?" Grantaire repeated his question as the two medical students rushed towards the armchair.

"I don't know," Courfeyrac said, hovering by the child as his two friends went about examining the ill, "His two little friends called him Gav, I think."

"Come, sit down, you look wearied to the bone," Enjolras said matter-of-factly as he pulled Courfeyrac to a chair.

"Here, some wine and say what's going on," Grantaire pushed the glass into Courfeyrac's hand.

Between sips of wine, the young law student recounted his chance encounter with the three street urchins earlier that evening. He was starving only hours earlier, yet sitting here at the cafe he had no appetite. Halfway through his story, Combeferre got up to quietly tell him that the boy was indeed very sick.

"We'll give him some rest and a light broth when he comes to," he said, "His pulse is very slow, and the fever's quite high, but some rest with a warm blanket should hopefully help. Joly went off to get some rags and water, we'll try to keep the temperature down."

"And his arm, did you look at that?"

"We'll just try to keep it still for now," Combeferre replied, "I'll ask for some bandages tomorrow to keep it firm."

"So I'm guessing he's staying here tonight?" Enjolras voiced the question on everyone's mind.

"He can have my bed," Courfeyrac offered, knowing that the arrangements ought to go this way since he was the one responsible for bringing this child back, "I don't mind the sofas in the corner."

"You're clearly sick too, though," Joly said, having just come back with rags and water in hand, "You ought to rest up and recover completely."

"Precisely. And so it won't spread if us sick ones are placed together."

"You ought to have chosen medicine, Courf," Joly replied, smiling slightly, "You've got too much sense and too much of a heart to be a lawyer."

"He is right in that," Enjolras agreed, "But you've got to rein in that heart, Courfeyrac. You cannot go saving each and every suffering person out there. There's a much bigger picture and a much bigger target out there."

"Perhaps I can't, but I'd like to try," Courfeyrac replied, "You talked of the grander scheme and trying to save the poor of France, yet you fail to see that the poor and the suffering are individuals that can be helped, one by one."

"I do not mean that we turn a blind eye to all sufferers," Enjolras explained, "Merely that we cannot house them all and treat them all, however much we would like to."

"Let us talk no more about this," Combeferre interjected, "It's late, some of us are sick, I think we should call it a day."

Shrugging his shoulders, Enjolras went to his desk and gathered up his papers. Joly waved off Courfeyrac's attempt to pick up the sick child, wrapping the boy up in a woollen throw and carrying him to Courfeyrac's room himself.

"I didn't mean it like that," Enjolras said as he passed Courfeyrac on the way out, "That child would be so grateful for people like you."

"Well," Courfeyrac started, but decided against speaking what was on his mind, "Tomorrow night, Enjolras?"

"Here, tomorrow night," he replied, inclining his head in farewells.

Combeferre and Grantaire followed him out, leaving the law student, the medical student and the sick child behind.

"Do you have a spare shirt in here, Courf?" Joly asked from down the hallway, sticking his head out of Courfeyrac's rented room.

Wearied to the bone, Courfeyrac stumbled down the hallway and threw a fresh shirt at Joly before collapsing down on the sofa. He barely had enough energy left to kick off his boots.

"He's wearing your shirt, if you don't mind," Joly told him as he rolled up a bundle of rags and headed out the door, "I'm off, first to burn his old clothes and then home. With some luck I'll be back early tomorrow with some bandages."

"Thanks, Joly," Courfeyrac replied as the lock clicked shut.

Mustering all he had left, the law student got up to put a fresh wet rag onto the child's forehead, then taking another rag for himself. He twisted and turned in the sofa that night, feeling a raging headache yet being unable to sleep. The boy's coughs became more frequent as the night goes on, rough and hacking. Half-delirious with a mild fever, Courfeyrac blamed himself for being such an idiot in forgetting to take off his jacket and wrap the child in it.

"Hush... don't... I don't like it when you cry... I'll sort it out... I will... Don't you trust Gavroche?"

Courfeyrac sat up at that, peering through the early morning light at the tossing bundle on his bed.

"A pocket... a pocket or two... maybe the shops..."

The boy was sweating heavily, yet he shivered within the blankets. Courfeyrac put a tentative hand on the child's shoulder, and jumped as the boy jerked suddenly.

"DON'T TOUCH THEM... don't..."

He gasped in pain as his left arm slid off the bed, yet his eyes remained shut. Courfeyrac bent down to tuck the hurting limb back on the mattress, steadying himself as his eyes blurred and his head swam. The blood throbbed audibly at his temples, and he slid down, leaning against the bed.

_Stupid. Should've asked them to stay. If Joly was here..._

When Joly returned the next morning, armed with bandages and equipment, he was greeted with a locked door. No matter how hard he knocked, he didn't get a response from Courfeyrac, save a bout of coughing and some barely audible moans. Finally, just when he thought it was time to kick down the door, the lock clicked open.

Courfeyrac hung off the door handle, barely standing even with its support. His eyes were glassy with a full-blown fever that developed over night, and in the bed against the wall the sick child was half-convulsing with violent coughs.


	3. Determined

**AN: I'm keen on updating, I know xD But I needed my fix of cuteness today, and so here it is. Hopefully that wasn't too sudden or out-of-character. Anyhow, there may not be much activity in the next three days, mainly because I do have my own university exams coming up. Sorry in advance for that.**

Dumping his medical equipment onto the narrow bureau by the door, Joly dragged Courfeyrac back to the sofa. He called out to the cafe matron for a jug of water and some soup, and set about caring for the feverish urchin as he waited. When the serving girl brought up the food on a tray, he thanked her curtly and shut the door behind him.

"What did you do to yourself, Courf?" he chided lightly as he poured out a cup of water and pressed it into Courfeyrac's hand, "Why didn't you call the matron for help? They could've sent someone out to bring us here."

"I'm fine, really," Courfeyrac muttered, sinking further back into the sofa, "Go back to Gavroche, he needs you more."

"I won't budge until you finish that cup of water and get some sleep," Joly said, watching his charges with an eagle eye, "Now, how did you know his name? Did he wake up in the night?"

"I don't think so," Courfeyrac said as he finished off the rest of his water and reclined into a more comfortable position, "He was sleep talking in between the coughing. Coughed all night, you know. I heard each and every one. Couldn't sleep with this bloody headache and temperature."

"Alright, Courf," Joly told him, moving away with the empty cup, "I'll look at him now. University will have to do without you and me for today."

As Courfeyrac drifted off to an uneasy sleep, Joly took out his splint and bandages to tend to the little boy's broken arm. Gavroche, if that really was his name, was not sleeping as such. He was delirious, floating in and out of consciousness like many of the ill that Joly had seen on his rounds as apprentice physician. But unlike his visits as trainee doctor, this time Joly was the one doing all the work. He rummaged in Courfeyrac's drawers for some socks, then proceeded to sit by the bed and mop the child's burning forehead for the hours to come.

When the others came to le Musain for the meeting that night, they found a semi-recovered Courfeyrac taking charge as Joly went off for his very late lunch. Combeferre took over the role of nurse, and Grantaire poured out wine for them all to renew themselves.

As Enjolras come in, Courfeyrac's back straightened instinctively and he met his fellow law student's eyes with all the strength he could muster. Despite having been friends for half their lives, Courfeyrac couldn't bring himself to admit that Enjolras was right. It would be impossible to open their doors and their arms to all the poor and the suffering. Caring for a child was a lot of work.

* * *

"Mon petit?" the boy spoke, his voice raspy from days of silence.

"Ah, you are awake," said a deep voice, nothing like the soprano lilt that his little clan have.

"Where are they?" Gavroche tried to sit up, only succumb to a fit of breathlessness and coughing, "What have you done to them?"

"Lie back down, my lad," the source of the voice moved closer, a flickering candle in hand to show Gavroche who was talking to him, "You're not well yet."

"No, I have to look for them!" the boy protested between coughs, each word staggered as he tried to lengthen his breaths, "They need me."

"The little boy and the girl who were with you?" the young man said, putting a light hand on the boy's shoulder to ease him back down, "You're still very sick, Gavroche, you need to look out for yourself first."

"How do you know my name?" the blond boy sank down onto the mattress obediently, momentarily shocked and frightened at this new revelation, "How do you know mon petit?"

"Some nights ago, you were very sick in the alley behind the shops, and your friends wanted to help you," he said patiently, "But the baker came out and said some nasty things to them, and they had to run away. So I brought you here to get some help."

"But I don't want help," Gavroche said stubbornly, "I don't want no charity."

"You are sick!" Courfeyrac exclaimed exasperatedly, toning down his voice as he saw the boy flinching instinctively, "It is not charity to help someone else when they need it, my lad. It's called basic human kindness."

"Kindness? Bah!" Gavroche sat up again, slower this time to avoid the coughing fit, "No such thing exists in France. I told you I don't want no charity. And besides, they need me back to get some food in their stomachs."

He swung his legs off the bed, losing his balance fleetingly as he realised he could not support himself with his bandaged left arm. Courfeyrac reached out to help, but took back his hands as he saw the brimming pride in the boy.

"Look, laddie, you just aren't fit to walk yet," he said instead, "Let's just get you well again, and you can go as you please."

The boy shook his head decidedly, biting his lips as his legs wobbled the moment they touched the floor. His thin shoulders tensed as he tried to keep his back straight, despite the way the room spun around him. The bravado seeped out of Gavroche as he attempted to walk out the door. Despite his words of conviction, he was still a child and a sick one at that. Against his wish to help this little boy that he had grown fond of, Courfeyrac forced himself to let the child test it out.

When he found that his legs couldn't support him any longer, Gavroche dragged himself across the floor with his one good arm. The sight of the pure determination and pride in this young boy touched something in Courfeyrac's soul. The coughs started to get the better of the child, forcing him to stay rooted on the ground. Still his shoulders were hunched, refusing any kind of help.

"Gav, my lad," Courfeyrac said, inching slowly towards the boy, his lawyer mind stuck for once, "I... We only want to help you, but if it worries you so much that you're receiving charity, then you are free to pay us back when you are well again. You could deliver messages for us and run errands, if that means you'll stay until you are completely well. And... and your friends, I can go to look for them if you would tell me where they are. We'll look after them until you get back to them. How does that sound, laddie?"

Gavroche said nothing in response. Worried, Courfeyrac ventured right up to the child, only to see that he had wearied himself out with all the effort to leave. Somehow, in the middle of Courfeyrac's bargains, he had fallen asleep. Sliding his arm around his little charge's shoulder, he started to stand and carry the boy back to his room.

"Non," Gavroche whispered, awoken, and struggled weakly to stand, "I can walk."

But he didn't push Courfeyrac's arm away, and as they make their way back to the room, the law student smiled a little at this first sign of trust.

* * *

The pneumonia that Gavroche had (a diagnosis that Joly and Combeferre hid from Courfeyrac for as long as possible, just to spare him the worry) healed very slowly. The little boy was strong, but years of living on the street with a stomach that was never full made him weaker. The particularly harsh winter that year didn't help either, a winter that chilled him to the bones because he had naught but worn rags. But the boy was anxious to be up and going, and the firm order to stay in bed from his new trainee physicians made Gavroche annoyed to no end.

"I'm fine!" he said one morning, "I ain't coughing anymore, and I don't feel sick."

"Just a few more days, laddie," Courfeyrac replied from the corner of the room, packing his new briefcase for another day at the university. The older case, the one he had left behind in the alley that night, couldn't be found again.

"How come you can leave and I can't?" the boy questioned.

"Because I am completely well, and you are not," Courfeyrac said, buttoning up his coat and grabbing his briefcase, "And before you protest anymore, Joly and Combeferre said so."

"But I'm well enough to help mon petit," the boy pushed on, "And more than well enough to run errands for you and pay back this charity."

"Alright, you know what? You can sort out the paper and books on my desk, and that should be plenty to repay us," Courfeyrac told him, "Just promise me to stay here until Joly gets back here."

"But you said I can go as I please when I'm well again, and I am," Gavroche said stubbornly.

"Your forehead is still warm and your arm's not mended yet!" Courfeyrac said somewhat exasperatedly, "Look, just stay here for today. Please."

"Why do you care so much?" the little boy asked back, genuinely puzzled, "What am I to you?"

"You are a little boy who doesn't look a day over six years old, that's what you are to me," the law student said, pausing at the door to look the child in the eye.

The boy said nothing to that. Slowly, he sat back down on the bed and pulled his knees up tight.

"I'll see you later then," Courfeyrac said, throwing a quick smile at Gavroche.

Just before the door swung shut, a little voice spoke up.

"I'm actually very nearly eight, thank you very much," Gavroche said, sounding mortally offended that Courfeyrac dared to suggest he was just a six-year-old child.

"You are fibbing me, my lad," Courfeyrac replied, laughing as he shut the door behind him.

"Am not!" the very-nearly-eight-year-old said, and despite trying to hide it, the smallest of giggles escaped his lips.

Courfeyrac smiled the entire way to university that day.


	4. Protective

He took down notes absent-mindedly in the university library that day, his fingers flipping through pages of law whilst his mind wandered back in time. Courfeyrac couldn't help thinking about the boy he left back in his room at le Musain, and he couldn't help replaying the tiniest of giggles that he managed to coax out that morning. It was strange, this fondness that he felt for little Gavroche. _Is this what siblings feel? _he asked himself, not knowing the answer because he was an only child.

The boy hadn't said much in the two weeks he was at le Musain, except for arguing with Courfeyrac about what he can and can't do and when he would be allowed to go back to Saint Michel. Les Amis have no more success in finding out about the boy's origins than Courfeyrac did, even with Combeferre's soft words and Grantaire's bribes of sugared almonds. All they knew was that he lived somewhere in the slums of Saint Michel with some other children, and that he refused to answer any of their other questions. But that morning, that very morning, Gavroche had volunteered up his age. And although he would never admit to it, Courfeyrac secretly felt triumphant that _he _was the one that the little boy confided in, and _he _was the one privy to that tiny giggle.

The light was slanting across the courtyard as he left the university, marking the end of another day. It was snowing lightly, draping a blanket of fresh white over the grey sleet underfoot. He turned into that old alleyway on the way home, a new habit that he had developed over the past week or so. Ever since he was well enough to return to university, he had taken the shortcut on the way home. It was no longer because he wanted to find his briefcase, for he had long given up on that idea, but because he wanted to see Gavroche's little friends again. The boy himself wasn't able to tell Courfeyrac where his 'mon petit' were, or he didn't want to reveal their secret location. That was one of the questions that Gavroche refused to answer.

There were crates and barrels, the same old silhouettes lining the alleyway. Courfeyrac walked slowly, peering in between the shadows. There were no children, just the scuttling of terrifying rats. When he reached the last dozen yards of the lane, he had given up hope. Clutching the handle of his new briefcase, he strode briskly from the dark alley, and almost jumped in the air when something cold touched his hand.

"Monsieur?" a lilting voice asked at the same time.

"Isobel!" a very familiar voice hissed, and a pair of arms reached out from the shadows to pull the owner of the other voice back, "Stop it! We don't know if it's him!"

"It is you, isn't it, Monsieur?" Isobel said, tilting her face up in the hopes that Courfeyrac recognised her, "We've been waiting an awful long time."

He did recognise her, not by her dirt-smudged little face but by the way she stood. For a dizzying moment he was transported back to the same alleyway two weeks prior, bending down to be on the same level as this little girl. Even with her tiny feet in shoes three sizes too large for her, she was that girl who stood with her toes poised like a deer ready to run.

"I told you it ain't him!" a grumpy face emerged from behind the stacked crates, "Now you've gone and ruin it all!"

"We've got your bag," Isobel ignored her friend and continued to stare up at Courfeyrac, her green eyes willing him to say something, "We've kept it nice and neat too, or as best we could."

She presented him with a soggy-looking briefcase with a little "A.C" sewn into the bottom corner, deaf to the other boy's protests. Courfeyrac took the damp briefcase from her hand, a million questions running through his head in that moment. He wanted to ask _Are you two okay? Are you hungry? Cold? Where have you been? _and a hundred or questions, but settled instead with a simple _Thank you._

"I told you it is him," Isobel said triumphantly to her friend, smiling a little.

"Don't you pull that _I told you so _attitude with me," he replied, trying to be gruff.

"Gavroche's been worrying about you," Courfeyrac told them, taking in the threadbare state of their clothing and thinking that his little charge was right to be worried.

"He's alright?" the boy blurted out despite himself, hanging on to the present tense of Courfeyrac's words.

"He's alright," Courfeyrac confirmed, "He's nearly completely well again."

"He's been talkin' about us?" the little boy asked, his eyes hungry for any morsel of news about their friend.

"He's been arguing for the past week about getting back to you two," Courfeyrac told him, smiling.

"Then why isn't he back yet?"

"He's not completely well yet, laddie," Courfeyrac explained patiently.

"We miss him," Isobel said simply, looking up at Courfeyrac again.

"And he you," the young man replied.

"I want to see him," the girl added, giving Courfeyrac a little smile for good measure.

"Enjolras... Ah, it is my room... He can't say anything..." Courfeyrac muttered to himself before speaking out to the children before him, "How would you like to come visit him?"

"'ow do we know we can trust you?" the boy retorted, trying to be suspicious, but the way he moved closer to Courfeyrac said otherwise.

"Oh, come on, Pierre," Isobel said exasperatedly, her hand already around Courfeyrac's fingers as she pulled him towards the exit of the lane.

They almost collided against Joly as they walked into le Musain. Courfeyrac's carefully planned explanation for bringing back another two children died on his lips as he saw the panic in Joly's face.

"Courf, at last!" the medical student said between shallow breaths.

"Did something happen to Gavroche?" Courfeyrac blurted out, jumping to the worst case scenario.

There was a long pause before Joly nodded. From beside him, Pierre gasped.

"Don't tell me... No..." Courfeyrac shook his head, already sinking into denial.

"Nothing like that, Courf. He didn't get worse, and he's not dying," Joly amended quickly, before adding, "I hope."

Already halfway up the stairs, with Gavroche's little friends on his heels, Courfeyrac turned back. "You hope?"

"Look, I..." Joly wrung his hand despairingly, "Oh, I can't say it. Go up there and you'll find out."

Taking two steps at a time, the law student cleared the rest of the staircase and bounded down the upstairs hallway. The door to his room was ajar, and there was a dreadful silence inside.

"Gav, my lad?" Courfeyrac said hopefully, his heart praying for an answer.

The rented room was empty, the blanket folded neatly on an unoccupied bed. Over on the desk, Courfeyrac's books and papers were sorted into neat piles, just as he had asked the blond boy to do earlier that day. And on the lone chair by the desk was one of Courfeyrac's shirts, hanging on the back of the chair in the place of Gavroche's old clothes.


	5. Lost and Found

**AN: Thank you so much for all your wonderful support, your readership and reviews mean so much to me :)**

"You said he'd be here," Isobel spoke, disappointed.

"I thought he would be," Courfeyrac whispered, more to himself than to the little girl.

He moved over to the desk, picking up the neatly folded shirt, only to drop it on the floor. His fingers ran over the books on his desk, stacked according to the colour of their binding rather than the subject. It almost made him smile, that eccentric way Gavroche had organised his desk. Almost.

"He was gone when I got here," Joly said from the doorway, not wanting to tread into Courfeyrac's space, "The matron didn't notice him leaving."

The panic had subsided in Courfeyrac's heart; it was gone ever since the moment he laid eyes on the organised state of his room. The stacks of colour-orientated books to the piles of quills arranged by size were Gavroche's way of saying _thank you, I'm well enough now_ and _good bye._ The boy would be alright, Courfeyrac knew, because he had never known another person with as much determination and strength as that child. But he felt hurt nevertheless, hurt to not be able to say a proper good bye. He felt somewhat empty inside his own room, now that his little roommate was gone.

"Where is he, Monsieur?" Isobel asked quietly, her voice betraying the slightest tremor.

"They don't know nothing about where he is," Pierre told her, trying to mask the upset tone of his voice with gruffness, "Somebody took him, Isobel. Like how Marg got takened up to do bad things."

"No, no," Courfeyrac said, his chest still peculiarly numb, his words trailing into a silence, "Nobody took him. He left of his own accord, but to where I don't know. He took his clothes and left the things I gave him behind. He even stacked my desk, my little laddie."

"He'd been missing us, right, Monsieur?" little Isobel spoke, coming closer to the young man.

"Yes, yes," Courfeyrac nodded, his mind still unable to take in the emptiness.

"He'd be looking for us, right, Monsieur?" the girl continued, standing right in front of Courfeyrac now.

"I guess so," he replied, "But where would that be? He said nothing to me about where you live."

"But Monsieur, _we _know where we live," she pointed it out, shaking her head a little at how she had to spell everything out for him.

"Gav wouldn't like that, Isobel," Pierre interjected, shaking his head at her in warning, "He's looking for us, and we'll look for him. No point telling Monsieur here. Let's go."

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to argue his case, to pull up any and every reason why he wanted to see Gavroche just once more. _Just to say goodbye and tell him that he can come back to the cafe whenever it suits him, _he'd say, pleading a case to another stubborn little boy. But he didn't need to.

"But he likes Gavroche, and he likes us!" Isobel fought his case for him, "And I like him. And Gav did too. Does it matter if he knows?"

"But we promised Gav not to tell!" Pierre wrung his hands, looking miserable.

"Who said I'm telling?" Isobel retorted back, wrapping her fingers around Courfeyrac's again, "Monsieur?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle," he answered gratefully, causing her to giggle as he bowed down and kissed her grubby fingertips, "Show me the way. And you too, kind sir, if you don't mind."

* * *

Joly stayed behind to explain the situation to the rest of les Amis, even though he himself wasn't entire sure about Courfeyrac's new urchins. Combeferre only nodded, for he knew that it was just like Courfeyrac to try and rescue anyone in distress. Enjolras simply shook his head and took his place next to a semi-sober Grantaire, taking out his law notes and settled in for an evening with no meeting.

In the meantime, Courfeyrac was threading through a maze of alleys and laneways with Gavroche's little friends, his hand firm inside Isobel's cool grasp. Despite his initial reluctance, Pierre had taken up the lead, marking out the way with his fleet footsteps in the snow. Isobel, with shoes three sizes too large for her, was struggling to keep up the pace. At a particularly sharp corner, maintaining balance became too hard and she fell over on her knees.

"Isobel, come on!" Pierre shouted back, already a hundred yards ahead.

"She's hurt," Courfeyrac told the boy as he knelt down next to Isobel, "Is it your knee, Mademoiselle?"

"I'm fine," she whispered to him, "Let's go."

"It's hurting you," he told her, taking in the tears balancing on the ends of her dark eyelashes, "It's okay to say that you're hurt, you know."

"I'm fine, really," she said, sniffling a little.

"You are just like him," Courfeyrac said, thinking of his little stubborn roommate, "Tell you what, how about I give you a ride on my back?"

"What's that?" she asked him, sniffling some more.

He looked at her, wide-eyed, for a moment. He thought back to all those moments in his own childhood, where his nanny would carry him up and down the stairs on her back, prompting peals of laughter from his four-years-old heart. He thought, stupidly, that anyone would understand that, not remembering that these street children have no one to hold them.

"Have no one ever..." he began, only to clamp his mouth shut and start again, "It's when someone big carry someone little on their back, when that little someone is tired or hurt."

"So you're the someone big?" she asked him.

"And you're the someone little," he answered, "Can you stand up?"

"Uh huh," she said, pushing herself onto her feet shakily.

He bent down so that she could get on his back, making sure that her arms were around his shoulders before he stood up again. She squeaked a little as he rose from the ground, and squeezed her arms extra hard around his shoulders. He huge shoes fell to the ground, and Courfeyrac got down to pick them up.

"What're you two doing?" Pierre asked, having just returned from realising that they were no longer following him, "Is she sick too?"

"Non, just a grazed knee," Courfeyrac said, "I'll carry her until it feels better."

From Courfeyrac's shoulders, Isobel smiled a little and leaned slightly against the young man. Pierre frowned up at her, turning his head away and marching off with a hurt attitude.

"He's just jealous," Isobel giggled her explanation to a very confused Courfeyrac.

But Pierre didn't stay jealous for long, not after Courfeyrac pressed a few coins into his palm and sent him to the nearest bakery to buy anything he wanted. He talked a lot more after that, having stowed away his gruff attitude to make room for two rolls of fresh bread. Time and time again he would realise that he was being too friendly to the law student, and would try to distance himself by mimicking Gavroche's guardedness, but he couldn't keep up the act for long.

Courfeyrac smiled to himself as they complete the last leg of their journey, with the girl on his back and the boy chatting by his side. It was so much easier getting to know these two. Maybe because they were younger, the girl looking about five and the boy not much older. Or perhaps it was because they were less guarded. It was this thought that made him wondered what Gavroche had gone through, and what made him as closed up as he was in these past weeks. The things that Courfeyrac could imagine sent shudders down his spine.

"Gav, open up!" Pierre shouted as he pushed against a barred wooden door.

They have arrived in one of the poorest areas of Paris, where dilapidated buildings were used as warehouses. Merchants from all the lands stored their less precious goods here, but the most run-down buildings were simply abandoned. The place Pierre and Isobel brought Courfeyrac to was one of these vacant warehouses, with a door held up by one hinge.

"Pierre?" Gavroche's familiar voice said through the gap beneath the door, and there were sounds of moving furniture before it halted suddenly, "Oh, I forgot! Password?"

"Come on Gav, you know I don't ever remember these," Pierre pleaded.

"You haven't used it when I weren't here?"

"No! i... Oh fine, neither of us used it. There's no point."

"But you helped me made it up!"

At this point, Isobel leaned in to whisper something in Courfeyrac's ear. When she was done, he walked up closer to the door and put a hand on Pierre's shoulder. The boy was about to announce the law student's presence, but then shut his mouth at a look from Courfeyrac.

"Is it la cachette secrete, my lad?" Courfeyrac spoke up, using the password that Isobel whispered to him.

There was a long silence before Gavroche replied.

"Courfeyrac?"


	6. Coming Home Again

**AN: It took me a while to get this up, just because of university and also not being satisfied with how the scene was written. So my deepest apologies for that. I know that there hadn't been a lot of Courf/Gav interaction, but I felt like the relationship needs to be built up first before I can write fluff to my heart's desire :D**

**As always, I am so grateful for your readership and reviews. You have no idea how happy I get when I receive new reviews and feedback. A special thank you to jhisk for wonderfully detailed reviews every time I post a new chapter :)**

"At your service, laddie," the young man answered.

"What..." the boy struggled for words, "How did you... Pierre?"

"It was her idea!" Pierre protested, pointing at Isobel before realising that Gavroche couldn't see him through the door.

"It was," Isobel agreed, "He's a lovely Monsieur, Gav."

"Don't you think I know that, after two weeks?" Gavroche blurted out, then abruptly changed the topic as he realised he just admitted to liking Courfeyrac, "How have you two been?"

"Can't we get in first, and then talk about this?" Pierre asked, knocking on the door again to remind his newly-returned friend that there was a wooden barrier between them.

"Oh, right. But you promised me to keep this a secret!"

"I did try! Blame _Isobel_!"

"It's all me," Courfeyrac interjected, bending slightly so that Isobel could get down, "I just wanted to know that you haven't run into anything bad since this morning. Now that I know, I'll just leave you three be. No need to be angry at Isobel."

"But Monsieur..." Isobel began, only to be gently hushed by Courfeyrac.

"I'll see you soon, petit," he told them, making himself walk away despite wanting to stay a while longer. He was a beginner at this getting-to-know-you business, and thought that perhaps giving them space was probably the best thing right then.

"Come _on_, Gavroche!" Isobel said, slapping the door hard with her shoes in her hands, "Pierre! Say something!"

She nearly hit Gavroche in the face as the door wrenched open suddenly, revealing a blond little boy with flushed cheeks. If Courfeyrac could see his little temporary roommate, he would've been deeply concerned about a possible fever, but Courfeyrac was at the end of the lane and it was dark.

"He's gone?" Gavroche said, sounding slightly forlorn as he looked down the empty lane.

"'cause you didn't let him it," Isobel replied a little crossly, but she reached out to hug the boy nevertheless.

"Welcome home, Gav," Pierre said as he filed in after Isobel, his voice not as excited as he thought it should've been. Although he would hate to admit it, Pierre couldn't deny that he liked Courfeyrac (but only a tiny little bit, mind!).

"Just as well that he's gone," Gavroche said, even though his eyes spoke otherwise, "I did what he asked, we're even. No point asking him in."

The other two children were already settling themselves on the ground, frayed hessian bags around their shoulders as makeshift blankets. Pierre passed three rolls of bread that he had saved from the bakery trip to Isobel and Gavroche. Two coins also slipped from his fingers, the leftovers of the amount that Courfeyrac gave him earlier.

"You should've given it back!" Gavroche admonished him, trying to put on his best adult voice.

"Why? He gave it to me, fair and square!"

"But you should've given it back anyway," he pressed.

"Why is it okay to steal things, but not keep things given to us?"

"Because," the older boy struggled to explain this desperate need to not be in debt to Courfeyrac, because the law student was too nice and too good to be true and Gavroche didn't want to be disappointed if it turned out this was some sort of dream. Or some sort of cruel joke. And well, the stealing was from mean people. Taking things from mean people didn't count, and it didn't make him feel as bad as taking things from someone who considered the street children as more than dirt.

"Besides, Isobel got more anyway, so I can keep mine."

"What? He only gave me a ride on his back," the girl said back, getting fed up with being blamed by Pierre for everything.

"Have you not heard your shoes rattling?"

She dug her hands into the worn insides of her left shoe, her eyes widening in surprise as she came into contact with cold metal. Courfeyrac had somehow, mysteriously and miraculously, slipped two francs inside them.

"Can I keep mine too, Gav?" she asked him, rolling the coins over and over between her fingertips. She had a sudden urge to put her lips to Courfeyrac's cheek, just like how she'd seen the ladies thank their gentlemen. But he wasn't there.

Gavroche broke up one of the bread rolls and sighed, chewing in silence because he cannot articulate any of his feelings. This was something so strange, something that he had never felt in his very-nearly-eight whole years of life. What do they call it? Warmth? He couldn't explain why or how, but he felt so safe beside Courfeyrac and les Amis, and it was making him terrified that he had let his guards down so much. He had learned, all too soon in life, that everything had a price, and this knowledge made him hesitant about accepting anything from Courfeyrac. Plus, he didn't like taking things from nice people.

"I guess," he conceded finally, wanting to drop the entire subject just so he could catch up properly with the other two.

But try as he might, he kept thinking about a certain law student. In between telling stories and listening to Pierre and Isobel, Gavroche caught himself wondering whether Courfeyrac liked the way he arranged the desk. And late that night, when they were curled up together in a corner of the warehouse, he couldn't help but remember another (much nicer, too) place to sleep.

* * *

Courfeyrac didn't get to see his little roommate for weeks yet, and he spent the majority of those days worrying. Gavroche looked fine enough that night, but the winter became more chilly since. In every street corner Courfeyrac saw familiar faces, not in the sense that he knew them, but they reminded him of a particular trio of urchins. He had never really noticed them before, but the girl begging on Rue Monge had the same dark curls as Isobel, and the twins down Place Dauphine spoke with the same uncertain defiance as Pierre. As for Gavroche, he was everywhere. It got to the point where all Grantaire could do was tease Courfeyrac about "acting like a mother hen".

Things got a lot busier in the meantime, as Christmas drew nearer and many of the young students made plans to return home. Enjolras was returning to his family home in Southern France, even though he had not been on good terms with his father lately. Joly left in the first few days of December, travelling southwest to the coastal regions where his extended family resided. The remaining three came from Paris, and so they remained around le Musain for longer. During this time, Grantaire drove Courfeyrac crazy with his teasing and Combeferre acted as the constant peacekeeper.

On the day before he was due to be home, Courfeyrac rushed about purchasing some last minute gifts. He had found things for each of les Amis days ago, but he had such trouble finding presents to bring home. Eventually he decided on a silver cigar box for his father, with a small poem inscribed on the lid, and a string of pearls for his mother. The jewellery was a standard gift for his Maman ever since he could remember, and the poetry on the box would probably appeal to him more than his father, but he had been away for so long and didn't know what they would want. It almost made him laugh when he realised that he could pick out things for his new little friends with more ease than for his own parents. He hadn't realised how long it had been since he last talked to his parents properly.

He returned to le Musain with five parcels instead of two, even though he wasn't sure when he would see the three street children again. They would come, he knew that much in his heart, but he had no idea when that would be. He left the wrapped gifts in his drawer in his rented room at the cafe, and placed his parents' presents inside his bag. He wasn't taking much home; his room was still fully furnished back in his parents' estate. He walked all the way to the fringe of the middle-class area and flagged down a carriage, his mind half worried about the three urchins and half dreading returning home.

He hadn't been back since the last Christmas, and he had only seen his parents a handful of times within the past year. There were stiff dinners shared with his mother every few months, where there was a lot more unspoken than expressed. With his father, he had ceased to bring up any specific topics in fear of treading on the wrong toes. The last time they had a meaningful discussion had not turned out so well, where a political debate bloomed into hurtful misunderstanding. Neither of his parents approved of his lodging at le Musain, a reputable albeit middle-class cafe. But they said nothing when he remained adamant about staying there, and continued to say nothing to their only son. The transition from pampered only son to distanced child had hurt Courfeyrac a lot, even if he didn't say so.

He rang the doorbell of Lamorna, his parents' estate, his hand smoothing his hair nervously. Instead of the housekeeper, his mother was the one who opened the door.

"Maman," he said, before being swept into an embrace by Madame Courfeyrac.

His father wasn't as open, but the previous disapproving looks in his eyes have softened. It seemed as though the Christmas spirit had worked its magic over them, and there was an unspoken agreement to keep the peace by not mentioning any political topics. The young law student went by his Christian name for the first time in months, being called Antoine by his mother for the brief holiday season. She asked him about his girls, pronouncing the plural with a slight note of disapproval. He laughed as he told her that nothing had happened, and she proceeded to write him a list of prospective Mademoiselles.

"You are just like your father," she told him, the lines around her eyes deepening as she smiled, "But you need to think about settling down, my child."

"I have a year yet of my studies, Maman," he replied, "And then my whole life ahead of me to find a bride."

And that was how they spent Christmas, talking about the light-hearted and reminiscing times past (except the last winter, where there was a huge row). Courfeyrac went to church on Christmas morning, his hand on his mother's elbow as her escort. He didn't dare admit to her that he hadn't been inside a church for months. She was sad enough about his leaving that afternoon.

When his carriage drew away from Lamorna later that day, he looked back for as long as he could possibly see his parents. The days he had spent home had stirred up a lot of mixed feelings from him, most of which regarded his parents. He blamed himself for holding such a long grudge over the past year, yet at the same time he couldn't forget what his father said about the poor of France. And he couldn't forget the way his younger cousins acted on Christmas morning, whining loudly from the guestroom that they wanted a different present. It brought to his mind the image of a little boy who clutched two ordinary rolls of bread to his chest like they were national treasures, and he felt doubly ashamed that he used to be one of the rich brats complaining that his rocking horse was brown and not white.

He arrived back at le Musain late on the 25th of December, lugging in a larger bag than the one he left with. The matron, Madame Baudouin, pressed a mug of mulled wine and a pouch of coins into his hand in exchange for his hearty Christmas wish.

"Oh, the wine is plenty, Madame," he smiled at her, ever the charmer, "You keep hold of your hard-earned coins."

"Ah, but they ain't mine, Monsieur," she told him as she wiped down the table next to his, "A motley bunch of children came in last night and asked for you, but I told them you won't be back until tonight. So they left the coins, and the girl asked if I could tell you Merry Christmas."

"Did they say they'll be back?" he asked her, staring down at the little pouch in his hand, "And thank you so kindly, Madame."

"They didn't say much but what I told you," she replied, "And the pleasure's mine."

He drank his mulled wine quickly and left a coin beside the mug, taking his bag and the little pouch upstairs to his rented room. Taking his coat off and loosening his tie, he untied the knot around the mouth of the pouch and poured its content onto his desk. The coins were dulled, made dirty by countless handlers from all walks of life, but they added up to the exact amount that he had given Pierre and Isobel all those nights ago.

"Monsieur?" a timid voice asked, accompanied by soft knocks on his door.

"Yes?" he answered, still rooted to his chair.

"Someone asked to see you," the serving girl explained haltingly, still terrified of addressing the wealthy young man despite him being at le Musain for nearly two years, "Right now."

"Did they tell you a name?" he asked her, striding across the room to open the door.

"No, Monsieur."

She didn't need to say anything else, for at that moment a little dark head bobbed up the stairs and green eyes lit up as they saw Courfeyrac.

"We saw yer walkin' back, Monsieur," Isobel said, almost skipping down the hallway towards the only person in the world who had ever called her _Mademoiselle._


	7. Getting to Know You

He laughed as she barrelled into him, her shawl dropping onto the rough wooden floor in her excitement. Pierre and Gavroche bounded up the stairs after her, the tips of their ears pink from the cold. The serving girl gave a nervous little laugh as she took in the scene, utterly confused as to what just happened.

"Thank you for taking them up, mademoiselle," Courfeyrac said to her, his hand resting on Isobel's shoulder as she stuck by his side, "We shall certainly call if we ever need anything."

She curtseyed and took up his cue to leave, but her curiosity made her look back several times as she climbed down the stairs. The young law student had taken the three children closer to the fire, and was pulling a sofa over with the help of the two boys. The dark-haired girl was chattering away, still attached to the young man.

"We came by yesternight, but you weren't home," Isobel told Courfeyrac, the words tripping over themselves in her excitement, "So Gav said to leave the money and go, but I made them come back tonight. We'd been waiting since forever!"

"It was only since afternoon, Issi," Gavroche rectified, "And you didn't _make _us come back. It's on the way home."

"Is not!" Isobel argued back, "We walked here especially. We always turn left at Rue de Broglie to get home, but we turned right today."

"Stop it, it's Christmas," Pierre stepped in between the two, "We're warm, it's nice, who cares if this is on the way home or not?"

"Spoken in true Christmas spirit, little man," Courfeyrac smiled at him, settling down on a chair.

"Where did you go, Monsieur? Yesterday and all them days before?" Isobel piped up as she placed herself at Courfeyrac's feet. The two boys stood a while longer before deciding to sit down on the sofa. They were dwarfed by it, sinking into the old upholstery with their feet dangling above the ground.

"Home to my family, petit," he told her, "Don't you want to sit on the sofa with the boys?"

She shook her head, her green eyes looking up at him.

"How about I pull up another chair for you?"

"Non, merci," she told him, "I like it here."

"Can we sit by yer, too?" Pierre spoke up from the depths of the nearby sofa, and Gavroche cocked his head in a silent affirmation of the same question.

It finally dawned on Courfeyrac that the children wanted to sit next to him, which was why Isobel refused to move from her post at his feet. He shook his head a little at his own cluelessness, and got on his feet. Isobel mirrored him, pulling herself up also and following him towards the sofa. He motioned for the little girl to sit down next to Gavroche, and placed himself on the worn carpet at their feet.

"Better?" he asked the trio, his eyes on the same level as theirs, "Now, tell me about this business of returning the money I gave you."

"Gavroche's idea," Isobel and Pierre said simultaneously, turning to look at the blond-haired boy sandwiched between them.

"I wanted you to have it, all three of you, that's why I gave it to you," Courfeyrac told them, "And before you say that it's just more charity, Gav, I meant it as a gift to you. That's what friends do, give each other gifts."

"How did ya know I was going to say charity?" Gavroche asked despite trying to act somewhat aloof, his little-boy curiosity winning out.

"You stayed in my room for two weeks, my lad," Courfeyrac grinned at him, "And argued with me about charity for the better part of those two weeks. I couldn't _not _know."

"It's our present back to ya, Monsieur," Pierre told Courfeyrac, "We kept the coins you gave us, truly. Issi bought her shawl with them, too."

"And it's a lovely shawl, Monsieur," the girl affirmed, stroking the rough wool.

"And it's honest money, Courfeyrac," Gavroche added, a little anxiously, "Isn't no stolen goods."

"Oh?"

"Gav found us jobs," Pierre told Courfeyrac.

"We run errands," Gavroche put in.

"And I help out at Madame Poupart's in the afternoons," Isobel chimed in.

"All this in the past month?" Courfeyrac asked, "Tell me, do they treat you well?"

"Some of them merchants and shopkeepers weren't too keen on us at first," Gavroche said slowly, "But Madame Poupart was nice enough, and the others we run errands for ain't a bad lot. We've seen worse."

Courfeyrac was at a lost to reply to Gavroche's answer, especially that very last part. Worse. What could possibly be worse?

"Madame Poupart's daughter gives me leftover bread when I'm done," Isobel said, as though to lighten up the mood, "And she taught me to mend, whenever we don't have things to do. Look, I fixed up my skirt all by myself."

She smoothed out her worn skirt to show Courfeyrac, her little fingers proud as they ran along the crooked edges. He touched the jagged hem, and was startled by the rough and threadbare state of it all. He hadn't noticed how thin the fabric was when he took her home that night Gavroche ran away. Suddenly he felt all too conscious of the fine cotton shirt against his skin and the soft blue jacket keeping him warm.

"And what a great job you did, mon petit," he patted her hand, thinking of the three parcels lying in his drawers and how naive he had been when he picked out those gifts. It was true that they would like the toys he bought them, just as he thought they would, but buying them each a jacket or a pair of shoes would've been so much more practical.

"Monsieur?" Isobel prompted softly, her fingers holding on to the warmth of Courfeyrac's hand.

"Yes, Mademoiselle?"

"Now that we've told you what we've been up to, can you tell us about your Christmas?"

He began haltingly, feeling strangely ashamed of the peace and complacency of his own Christmas. Isobel only wanted a story, a glimpse into the life of those with plenty of food on their tables and plenty of arms around their shoulders. He tried to be brief, because it pained him to see the way Gavroche struggled to imagine something as ordinary as a family sitting around the Christmas feast. The mention of food captured Pierre's attention very quickly, and he kept pausing Courfeyrac mid-sentence to ask for an elaboration of this dish and that.

"You have never had a roast?" Courfeyrac replied as the little brown-haired boy asked him to describe what the meat tasted like.

"Non, never," he answered truthfully, "Why, where are you going, Monsieur?"

Courfeyrac was standing up, his hands gently disentangling Isobel's fingers from his hair. She had, somewhere during the course of the story, started to twine her fingers in his curls, smoothing them. She startled as he moved her hands, her half-closed eyes snapped open and she instinctively flinched.

"It's alright, petit. It's just me," he told her, then turned to Pierre, "I'm heading downstairs to rectify the terrible fact that you've never tasted a roast in your life."

"What's rectify?"

"To correct," Courfeyrac answered automatically, before realising that the children wanted layman's words, "I'm ordering food for you all, roast included."

Madame Baudouin grumbled a little as Courfeyrac listed his order, since it was rather late and they just began packing up. But he pulled out his best smile and pressed a few more coins into her hand, and she called the grudging serving girl to build up the fire again. There were only bits and pieces left of everything, and the two women did their best to serve up a mosaic feast of many small dishes.

"Shall I get a flask of the special wine for Monsieur Grantaire?" the matron asked Courfeyrac as she set about heating up food, assuming that the rest of les Amis were coming soon.

"Non, merci," Courfeyrac replied as he head upstairs, "He won't be back til tomorrow afternoon, and the others are set to return in two days' time."

Without him there, the children had inched closer to the fire, for despite having new hats and a new shawl the winter was still bone-chilling. Courfeyrac paused on the last step and watched as they warmed their fingers near the crackling flame, the shine of the fire dancing brightly in their eyes. Silently he walked down the narrow hallway away from the trio, pushing open the door to his room. The parcels were exactly where he placed them last, snug in between his shirts in the drawer, the wrapping paper slightly crinkled. He took them out, alongside three of his own jackets.

"Monsieur, ya food is done," Madame Baudouin called from outside his door, her voice followed by the clattering of dishes as she set them down on the table.

"Thank you so kindly, Madame," he told her as he closed the door to his room, his arms full of packages and clothing.

She was gone by the time he reached the table. The three street children have migrated away from the table and were standing by the table with huge eyes, speechless for a moment. In his life, Courfeyrac had never seen anyone look at ordinary food with such wonder.

"Dig in, mon petit," he told them, although it didn't look as though they needed much invitation.

When they managed to polish off the plates (which didn't take very long at all!), Courfeyrac handed out the parcels and jackets in his hands. He brushed off Gavroche's protests about the presents, insisting that the parcels were Christmas gifts and the jackets were only a loan. _Since you're here, you may as well be warm, _he told them.

"It's mighty late, Monsieur," Gavroche said after a half-hour filled with adoration of their new playthings, "We'd better get on home."

It was indeed late, for Pierre's head was drooping and Isobel's eyes were struggling to stay open. Gavroche himself was stifling his frequent yawns, and although Courfeyrac knew that it was terrible of him to blackmail children, he did it anyway. He couldn't let them go out into the cold and back to that godforsaken warehouse, especially not on Christmas day. And so he told the little blond boy that if he wanted to repay the rest of his debts to les Amis for treating his pneumonia, he would promise to stay at le Musain til the morning comes.

"Then it won't be charity at all," the law student concluded, ruffling the messy blond locks, "And look, would you be so cruel as to leave me all alone on Christmas day? Keep me company, Gav."

Gavroche dodged Courfeyrac's hand and pouted at him, but the laughter couldn't be contained.

"You're good, Courf," he admitted, his blue eyes lit up as a grin stretched across his face, "If what I heared about lawyers is true, then you'd make a fine one."

"And what have you heard about lawyers, exactly?"

"This and that," the boy cocked his head, his eyes dancing mischievously, "Quick to start arguments, quick to win them with blackmailing and guilt-tripping."

"If you didn't look so darn innocent, I would've..." Courfeyrac let the sentence dangle, reaching over to cuff the boy playfully.

**AN: And cue a little heart-to-heart between Courf and Gav :) Sorry about the delay in posting this chapter, and sorry in advance about the delay in posting the next one (should be early next week some time) but yes, I hope you enjoyed this little morsel of fluffiness :)**


	8. Getting to Like You

**_Getting to know you, getting know all about you_**

**_Getting to like you, getting to hope you like me_**

**_[Getting To Know You - The King and I]_**

The boy's skinny arm rose before he could think about it. He resumed the instinctive position of defence, shielding his face from Courfeyrac. The young man froze for a second, watching the boy flinch away from him.

"I'm sorry," Courfeyrac said, backing off a little, "I'm doing this all wrong, aren't I?"

The space between them throbbed in emptiness.

"No, I didn't mean..." Gavroche lowered his arm and straightened ever so slightly, "Oh, never mind."

"I'm sorry," Courfeyrac said again, his eyes not quite meeting the boy's, "I wouldn't have hit you, never. I guess we don't have the same taste for jokes."

"I know you wouldn't have," Gavroche brushed it off, "Old habits die hard, though. You can joke all you like, Courf."

"I..." the young man began, then started again, "What do you mean, old habits die hard?"

"Nothin'," the boy shrugged, trying hard to keep the nonchalance, "Now, what were we sayin'?"

The burning need to know what happened to this child bubbled on Courfeyrac's lips, but he thought better of it. Even though he knew next to nothing about children, he knew enough to realise that pressing the topic would only make the boy retreat further away. He wanted to hit himself for destroying that easy moment between the two of them.

"You mad at me, Courf?" Gavroche spoke up again, his voice at the thinnest Courfeyrac had ever heard.

"No, why would I be?"

"You look mad."

"Only at myself, kiddo," he looked at the boy for the first time since he flinched, and saw the effect of the silence between them, "Why would I be mad at you?"

"Well..." Gavroche dragged out the vowel, suddenly regretting bringing this up in the first place, "I... Never mind."

"I mind."

"I just thought that... well... you'd be downright mad 'cause I didn't answer you... your question."

"It's just a question, kiddo, you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

There was a long silence before the boy whispered his reply.

"Father didn't think so. He hated it when I didn't answer."

It took moments longer for Gavroche to speak aloud the last thought on his mind.

"He hated me. So did Mother. I don't want you to hate me."

In one swift movement, Courfeyrac was right beside the little boy. He hesitated slightly before reaching out to touch the boy's shoulder, but his intuition won over.

"I've only had reasons to like you, Gav," he told the boy, whose tense shoulders relaxed slightly when he wrapped his arm around them, "And plus, I have a strict policy to never hate children, especially not one as cute as you."

"You just made that one up, didn't you?" the boy whispered as he allowed himself to lean on Courfeyrac's shoulder, maybe just for a little while, "Whatever a policy is."

"You've got to stop seeing right through me, kiddo," Courfeyrac told the boy, taking care to be extra gentle when he ruffled Gavroche's hair.

"Can't help it," the child replied, realising how nice it was to lean on somebody who cared.

"Well, I guess I've got to work on being less transparent," Courfeyrac said.

Beside him, the little boy stifled a yawn. It struck him yet again how young the child was, despite all the bravado and the sharp wit that he paraded. The boy's curls was leaning on Courfeyrac's arm rather than shoulder, despite the young man already slouching a little.

"And work on not calling me cute," Gavroche told him, his voice fuzzy with sleep, "I'm not a baby girl. I'm a..."

"...very-nearly-eight-year-old little man, I know," Courfeyrac chuckled, "Alrighty kiddo, I'll work on that."

The boy's head had slipped onto Courfeyrac's lap by the end of that comment, his tired eyes fast asleep. His curls, though still dirty from days of no washing, shone like old gold by the light of the fire. Courfeyrac sat in the silence for a while longer, his heart beating to the soft rhythm of the street children's breathing. When the fire dwindled down to naught more than glowing coals, the law student closed his eyes and slept on the floor for the first time in his life, his right hand enveloped in Gavroche's unconscious fingers.

* * *

"Monsieur? It's morning," callused little fingers tapped Courfeyrac's shoulder.

Courfeyrac shifted on the floor, turning to his right side to rest his head against the arm of the sofa. His eyes remained closed.

"Whatcha doing, Issi?" hissed another voice, loud despite trying to be quiet, "It ain't morning for Monsieur yet, we just gotta go."

"But look, the sun's nearly up!" the little girl protested, "C'mon Monsieur."

Courfeyrac stirred slightly, his body clock still accustomed to getting up at eight. He opened one groggy eye to look for the pocket watch by his bedside, only to realise he was in the meeting place. The nearby cathedral bells chimed just then, five neat rings echoing through the middle-class streets of Paris.

"See, I told ya. Five is morning," Isobel told Gavroche and Pierre matter-of-factly, "And see, Monsieur's awake now. Good morning."

"Mornin', Mademoiselle," Courfeyrac smiled at her, struggling to sit up, "You're up nice and early."

"Non, I'm always up at five," she said, scooting a little closer to her Monsieur, "Same as the sun, well, in summer anyway."

"What for, petit?" Courfeyrac asked her, trying to work out the crick in his back without dislodging the little girl from his side, "Do you like looking at the sunrise? My Maman gets up at five also, because there's nothing she loves more than watching the start of a new day."

"I haven't really thought about the sunrise," she answered honestly, her roughened little fingers finding their way to Courfeyrac's, "I don't think _any _of us thought about the sunrise."

"What's to see?" Pierre puts in, "Bright circle goes up, and a new working day starts."

"We got work at half five, Courf," Gavroche said simply as he looked down from his perch on the arm of the sofa, "Gotta leave soon, don't have no time for sunrise and whatnot."

"At those places that you told me about? Madame Poupart's, was it?"

Three little heads nodded.

"They start the baking at half five," Isobel explained, "And the shop people like their errands ran quick and early."

"So we gotta go, right now," Gavroche reiterated, taking off the coat Courfeyrac lent him and returning it to the young man.

"So we don't lose our places, since they got real mad the last time we weren't on time," Pierre added, "Yelled and said we were good for nothing."

"Wait, don't you leave without your coats on and without breakfast in your bellies," Courfeyrac stood up and limped nearer to the street children, shaking out the pins and needles in his legs, "And if they treat you that bad, why are you going back?"

"Because they're all we have," the three replied simultaneously, the seriousness in their voices making Courfeyrac's heart cracked a little.

He wanted to say _"no they're not, you have _me" but the words didn't come out. Instead Courfeyrac stood there, looking down at three pairs of eyes that were both ancient and childish.

"You make me think of my own Maman, Monsieur," Isobel said quietly after a long pause, cocking her head to look at him, "Don't leave without your coat. Don't leave without your breakfast."

"Don't leave," Courfeyrac echoed, a crazy half-formed idea budding inside his mind, "Don't. Tell you what, wouldn't you like to run errands for us? Les Amis? Deliver letter and messages, going here and there?"

"You just thought this one up too, didn't you, Courf?" Gavroche grinned at his newfound friend, "Seein' right through ya. Did you even ask the others?"

"They'll be fine with it," Courfeyrac told the boy, glad to see that mischievous sparkle back in his blue eyes, "And even if they're not, I can always work my fine lawyer skills on them – blackmailing and guilt-tripping and the lot."

Gavroche laughed at that, partly because of this reference to their new inside-joke and partly because of the exaggerated wink Courfeyrac threw his way.

"Anyone want to tell _us_ what's goin' on?" Isobel stepped in between the two, her work-roughened fingers tugging on Courfeyrac's sleeve.

"Who's Les Amis?" Pierre stepped up also, his brown eyes inquisitive, "And all this lawyer business?"

"You'll find out," Gavroche told them, winking in his turn.

"What do ya mean, _you'll find out_?" Pierre pressed.

"He means you're no longer heading off for work," Courfeyrac answered, "Because you're working for Les Amis, and since I'm the only one here today, I say we have a day off."

"But we gotta work to earn our keeps, Courf," Gavroche protested a little, "Even though day off sounds nice."

"Well," Courfeyrac paused, trying to quickly think up tasks for them all to do, "You can arrange my desk again, Gav, and you can help him, Pierre. There's no errands today."

"What about me, Monsieur?" Isobel asked, eager to be allocated something too.

"You can teach me how to darn my shirt," he told her, already mentally putting aside his university work for the day. It was worth it, he reasoned (or rather made an excuse for avoiding academic work!), since it was their first day and he was supposed to show them around.

Courfeyrac excused himself to his rented room just moments before leading the children in. With one swift move he knocked over the piles of books and papers on his desk, all of which were neatly arranged by subject matter. He scattered his quills and writing utensils like snowflakes. Truth to be told, he didn't need them to arrange his desk at all, but he knew of Gavroche's famous pride and his abhorrence for charity.

"You've gotten messier since I was here last," the blond boy commented when he entered the room moments later with his friends.

"Well, I was missing someone to keep it all neat and tidy for me."

"How'd ya want it to be put back together?"

"By colour, please," the young student said, grinning as he caught the half-smile on Gavroche's lips at this recognition of his previous arrangement, "Or surprise me."


End file.
